Ain't No Mysterion
by theshadowswhisper
Summary: Wherein Kenny is no hero, and Butters goes and saves him. Love is silly, love is random, love is obscene and cruel and wonderful. KennyxButters, StanxKyle, BebexWendy
1. Chapter 1

**Pssst. South Park isn't mine. **

Hi. I'm Kenny. And I have a story to tell you.

The first thing you should know is I suck at telling stories. When I was a kid, I usta try to spin together yarns for my little sis, to keep her calm during thunderstorms and whatnot. Never could pitch a good one, unless I was just ripping off something someone else had told already.

'Cause a story's gotta have a direction. That's what gives it urgency, you know? See, I can imagine all sorts of characters and situations and fuck all, but they got to struggle, 'cause that's what makes ya empathize. They got to go through something tough, or you don't got no reason to care what happens to 'em.

Well, anyway, I can never hold up a plot, 'cause I don't know nothing about journeys. Your character can be the hottest thing since Katy Perry or shoot moonbeams out of his asshole, but it don't amount to shit, 'cause they don't do nothing. And if they ain't on a journey, they ain't learning a lesson.

And that's what stories are really all about, see? Learning a lesson. Some kinda moral.

It's the moral that makes the hero. 'Cause someone's gotta learn the lesson first, so the reader understands it. Someone you can sympathize with, so when the hero learns his lesson, you feel it too. Like you done it yourself, even though all you done is sit on your pot and read some book. The hero's the most important part of the story. 'Cause even a pretend hero can save your life with the right lesson.

Maybe I got troubles with plot, but now I got a hero. So I guess I got a story, and that's why I'm telling you. 'Cause even though I ain't like, some 16th century dude in tights or a bearded old folk teller sitting by a campfire—fuck, I can't even grow a legitimate beard—I gotta try to tell you all my story anyway. 'Cause I know a genuine hero, and maybe he could save you the way he done me.

I had this teacher that said good stories don't start at the beginning. They start in the middle, where shit's pretty darn bad, so the reader's attention's caught right away. So I'll skip the whole 'once upon a time' spiel and tell it to you straight. Just the important bits, so you get the idea without me having to talk too much.

We open on this: me thrashing around like a fish on a hook, in a puddle of my own piss, head bleeding all over the sidewalk, and some shithead kicking me in my already broken ribs. Guess you wouldn't know what that looks like. I'll try to explain it to ya.

Picture that homeless guy you sometimes flick your spare change at on your way to the office. Face too dirty to even know what age he is, too dirty to look long enough to try to figure it out. He's wearing rags and yesterday's garbage, dragging around a beat up guitar with like, four strings left, or maybe pushing a rusty shopping cart full of old carpet.

Yeah, that was me. Well, not specifically me, 'cause I don't know where the fuck you live or what poor fucker you're thinking of. But it's all the same anyway. We've all got the same damn ugly face. We all ask you the same question with our Styrofoam cups and cardboard signs.

Pity, we're begging for your fucking pity.

And we do get a little bit, rarely ever totally ignored, 'cause even though no one gives a shit if a bum dies, no one wants to watch one die right in front of them. They wanna be able to sleep on the idea that they're not responsible, 'cause they did SOMETHING, even if it didn't add up to more than twenty cents. Not your job to fix the problems of the world, but you have to at least give a damn to sleep on a clean conscious. And apparently, damns are given in the form of dimes, nickels and pennies dropped in Styrofoam cups.

So like, anyway. I'm not looking too hot. Dirt and blood and sweat all over my face, bare feet lashing out blindly, 'cause I can't even fucking see who's kicking the shit outta me, and I'm screaming like an animal 'cause I know I'm about to die in the streets. And even though I never expected to last long out here anyway, I'm pissing myself with fright 'cause when it comes down to it, I really don't wanna die.

I start to see white instead of red behind my eyelids, and I know I'm done for. Like seeing the heavenly light or some shit. Bit of a relief that soon I'd be outta here one way or another, though it struck me as odd, 'cause you know. Heaven. Never figured on going there. But whatever, I saw the light, and so I figured God maybe just forgot about the shit I did that made me hell-worthy. Seemed likely. I forgot half the shit I did.

But as I'm preparing to meet my Maker, I hear this way high pitch voice, all nervous and squeaky, but angry as I've ever heard 'em. Seriously. It was like a pissed off mouse or something.

"Leave him alone!" the Squeaker shrills, "You-you better leave right now! I'm warning you!" He sounds like a squirrel trying to boss around a German Shepard. I tried to open my eyes to see what was happening, but they were swollen shut good. No dice.

"Fuck off," the guy (whose boot is still half buried in my abdomen) spits back, "nothing to see here, fag. Just move on before I put a hole in your nosey little ratface."

"N-now see here!" Squeaker's voice gets all indignant, "I'm going to call the cops! So you better stop that right now!"

"I said fuck off!" the repetitive jabs of pain cracking against my ribcage stop, and I gasp in relief. I hear the guy's boots crushing the gravel as he swivels to face the Squeaker. I feel a trippy mixture of guilt and gratitude. 'Cause I know that Squeaky's probably going to get his face beat in for trying to help me. He doesn't sound like much of a fighter to me, either—he's fucked.

But even when Douchebag-Formerly-Kicking-Me turns on him, Squeaky doesn't run off like he damn well should. I listen for the footsteps retreating in the opposite direction, but don't hear anything. So, I'm thinking, dude, he is either dead, or he's the stupidest damn squirrel in the tree.

"_You_ fuck off!" that high pitched voice cries out, "you're going to kill that person down there, and I ain't gonna stand by and watch you murder him!"

If I could talk at that point, I would have asked him what the fuck he was smoking. Maybe helium, the crazy fucker. You don't just…

"That's it! I warned you! I'ma carve your face in, you little faggot!" Formerly-Kicking-Me takes some thudding steps towards my now doomed savior, and I try to crawl away. Don't judge. Hey, the guy's risking his life so that I might survive. May as well take advantage.

"You're gonna regret sticking your nose where it don't belong," he says and starts lumbering forward again, "gonna teach you a damn lesson. I—"

But just then, sirens sound, and Squeaky's, and my, asses are saved. The big guy mutters, "god fucking DAMN it," under his breath and takes off in the opposite direction.

And Squeaky? He lets out a big old sigh of relief. Yeah, guessing he knows that in one more second and he woulda been hamster food. And me? I'm trying to use one arm to drag myself over the sidewalk. My fucking ribs hurt, my head feels like it's been used by little kids for a Pewee soccer match, but all I know is that I sure as shit can't hang around here. Because, dude. Cops.

"Phew. Close one," Squeaky's voice approaches me, "are you okay?"

I internally roll my eyes and don't bother answering.

But then, I feel his hands reach for the pulse in my neck, and I give up trying to crawl away. Too tired now anyway. His soft fingertips brush under my chin and I try to get a look at him, but get an eyeful of blood instead. So I just lie there and let him do is thing. Maybe he'll go away.

"You're bleeding."

I cough instead of chuckling ironically. "N-n," I hack some more and taste blood, before continuing with a grimace, "No crap."

"You shouldn't talk," his voice is soothing somehow, full of concern, nice and quiet. Least I think that's what he said. Ain't sure, 'cause I'm going in and out of consciousness, black and red trading places before my eyes.

I cough some more, pain shooting up my sides. I clutch my ribs; fuck—my chest feels like it was run over by a tractor. I wonder if there are any bones left unbroken.

"Don't worry," Squeaky's voice says, all fuzzy and far away sounding, "we'll get you fixed up in no time."

He says some more things, but I can't keep track of it. The world loses its sharp lines and starts to go dark, and I fade out, blessedly into blackness.

So that's how it started. I know you probably already got some questions you're just dying to have answered. Well, chill out. I'll tell ya, just be patient.

All you need to right now, is that that's how the Squeaker saved my life.

What I should point out to you is that I had no idea who Squeaky was at the time. He saved my ass for no good reason. And he risked his life to help me, and that's not even what I really mean when I say he saved me.

And he did it without even knowing my goddamned name.

But you'll see. Just relax, and it'll all become clear. For now, I'll tell you what happened next, 'cause I got a lot more story to tell, and time's a-wastin'.

I wake up feeling like crap. If you've ever had a hangover, you might have some idea what it was like. I had the headache….well, really, the everywhere-aches, the stomach pain, the nausea…but also, breathing hurt so much I nearly cried when I made the huge mistake of trying to like, inhale. Which doesn't usually happen just from throwing back one too many…and if it does…the fuck man, what are YOU drinking?

"Fuck!" I gasp a breathe like fire and try to grab my abdomen, but find my arms full of assorted needles. I feel kind of green at the idea, 'cause this one time, I saw a movie about vampires. They put needles in people and used 'em to suck out all the blood, so they could bank it away for later. But when I actually open my eyes and take everything in, I ascertain that I am in a hospital, not a vampire lair. Which might have been preferable, 'cause _fuck_, it's bright in here. I wince and shut my eyes again.

"Morning," I hear a familiar high pitched voice, "oh good, you're awake! Although…I don't think you outta move too much. You had five broken ribs and a ruptured liver."

I blink and squint in the neon white hospital light.

"Who the fuck are you?" I rasp dryly—my voice sounds a million years old. My throat hurts, too, and suddenly I'm dying for a glass of water.

"I didn't want you to wake up alone."

I snort, or attempt to, but it sounds more like a wheeze. Squeaky pats my shoulder sympathetically as I hack away, and I give up trying to talk. Hurts too much—I'm already out of breath.

"I want to help you," Squeaky says like it's really that simple, "And-and I'm Butters, by the way. Butters Stotch." I turn my head (which turns out to be more difficult than it sounds) and let my eyes adjust to the light.

That's when I get my first good look at this guy, Butters. Little blurry at first, but when things straighten out, I can see him clear as day. One look and I already know everything about this dude. Got this apologetic expression on his face, eyebrows knit and mouth small and tense. That expression is probably a permanent fixture by the look of him. Freckles and blonde hair sticking out every which way. Not a button out of place, and he's buttoned all the way up his neck. Straight slacks, shiny shoes—he looks like one of those guys that sell bibles.

…_This _is the guy that stood up to the mindless muscles about to smear me last night?

"Name's Kenny," I grunt, bewildered.

Also, the fuck kind of name is Butters?

"It's nice to meet you, Kenny," Butters says warmly, then fidgets uncertainly for a moment. "Are…are you feeling better today?"

"Better," I break off, coughing again—it feels like being stabbed in the ribcage,"…better than dead."

"Aw geez," Butters looks upset, "can…can I get you anything? Water? A nurse?"

"Water," my eyes widen appreciatively, "fuck…please. Water."

Then he pulls out this big old bag, and I'm like, "man purse, much?" But he ignores me and shuffles through it, and it must have a lot of shit in it, 'cause it takes him awhile before he looks up again. And when he does, he's got a water bottle. It practically shines heavenly light, and I ain't kidding. I've never been more grateful for a drink in my entire life, which something coming from an alcoholic bum.

"Here," he says holding it to my lips. He squeezes out a few drops into my mouth, and the cool beads sliding down my throat is the fucking essence of relief. I seize the bottle gulp the whole thing down in a few seconds. When it is finished, I sigh and pat my water-bloated stomach.

"Thanks," I look gratefully at this Butters, who takes the empty bottle and sticks it back in his gay-ass man purse.

"Better?" he asks. And I'm a little waterlogged, but shit yeah I do.

I nod.

"Good," Butters smiles, and fuck—he really smiles. His whole FACE smiles, you know?

All lit up bright and shiny like a goddamned Christmas tree. I stare for a few seconds, cause I can't even remember the last time I saw someone smile like that. 'Specially at me.

I settle into my pillows, let my eyes drift shut. As I do, Butters pulls something else out of his sack.

"What's that?" I ask, not bothering to open my eyes

"Poetry," he explains happily, "Why, I thought I'd, uh, read it to you while you heal up? We can do a chapter or two a day. It'll make the time go quicker."

"You're going to visit me every day? What the fuck? Why?"

"I-I already told you," Butters says, "I don't want you waking up alone."'

**Thanks for reading! This will be updated regularly, so don't forget to come back to look for new chapters.**

**Oh, and reviews are wonderful, please leave them!**

…**Just saying.**


	2. Chapter 2

**I have no South Park. Only a cookie. My cookie!**

One morning, I wake up to the most beautiful sight in the world:

Breakfast.

Pancakes, golden and soft and fluffy and absolutely dripping with golden syrup—I can hardly keep it in my pants they look so fucking good. A tall glass of orange juice with little beads of condensation dripping down the sides, bacon, glistening with grease and speckled with blackened bits from the griddle—I don't care what anyone says. Waking up to breakfast, actual food, sitting on your bedside table is better than sex, booze, or love.

I attack the food like a fucking beast, that's what.

"Didja sleep okay?" says a familiar squeakeriffic voice, and I turn to give him a thumbs up with matching grin through a mouthful of pancakes.

"Ooh, good then. W-well, didja have nice dreams?" Butters asks a lot of questions. That's the first thing I learn about the little guy. He's got a million things he wants to know, and you'd think a guy'd run outta steam after the first million and a half, but nah, this guy. This guy isn't satisfied until you've told him every single little thing that ever sat in your poor, hazy, drugged up brain. I'm totally tripping on painkillers, and he's launching the Spanish Inquisition. If he hadn't made me the best breakfast I've had since like, ever, I'd be pretty grumpy. As it is, I tolerate it with a smile as I raise my forkful of breakfasty goodness.

"Yup," I say, "dreamed of you, Sunshine," I wink. He's twiddling his thumbs and blushing, and moreover, he shuts up for a moment. So mission accomplished.

I continue the glorious eating, and as I do, I attempt to make pleasant conversation. Maybe that don't sound so pleasant to you, but I promise, I kept the spewage to a minimum. And if any got on my high-pitched compadre, it's his own fault for standing in the splash zone.

"Thanks for the pancakes," I remember my manners as I wipe my mouth on the back of my sleeve.

"Aw, you're welcome," Butters scuffs his foot bashfully, "it ain't nothing."

"Well, 'nothing' tastes pretty good to me," I say, "you're the man."

"Well..uh, thanks, Kenny."

"You're welcome."

And for a moment it's pretty quiet. Butters gazes kinda awkwardly out the window, and I munch my pancakes. They're so good, but they are gone quicker than I'd hoped. Damn, good things never last, do they? You eat 'em up and then got nothing but a belly full of regret that they are gone afterward. Funny thing is, you'll eat 'em again soon as you get a chance. We don't really remember the regret when we're eating pancakes.

The door swings open, and in walks trouble's slutty sidekick, Miss Fucking Bebe Stevens. Butters stares at her with dinner plate eyes, looking like he's about to shit his pants. Yeah, that's the typical reaction.

She doesn't even notice I've got company. "Kenny Fucking McCormick, what the fucking fuck happened to your face?" she marches over to me, eyes fiery.

"Real nice, Bebe," I say dryly, "did someone get a visit from the period fairy today?"

She rolls her eyes. "Can they stitch up your mouth like they did that busted head of yours?" Bebe sniffs as her gaze rakes over me: the beeping machines I'm hooked up to, the casts on my arm, my torso crisscrossed with bandages. She quickly glances away.

"You jackass," she says in a quieter voice, "you almost got yourself killed."

I cough uncomfortably. "Nah, I had this guy to save me," I gesture to Butters, who is still watching Bebe like a wary little kid watches an animal at the zoo. It's no wonder, really. With her blue hair, leather motorcycle jacket and combat boots…Bebe Stevens must look like something out of the Rocky Horror Picture Show to Butters. She takes notice of him for the first time, whirling to face him so the blue streaks in her curls fly in colorful streamers around her face.

"And who are you?" she asks him with more open curious than hostility.

Butters snaps out of it to answer. "I'm, uh, I'm Butters Stotch," he says carefully, "it's nice to meet you, ma'am." Though he looks terrified, he holds out his hand. Not as surprised as I should be I guess, but he's proved himself to be a pretty brave guy after all.

Bebe takes one look at his outstretched hand and guffaws, looking delighted and confused. I doubt she's ever been called "ma'am" in her whole life.

"Where the fuck did you find this guy?" she slaps Butters on the back, still giggling, "I love him!" Butters backs up a few steps, withdrawing his hand, concerned eyebrows coming together on his forehead.

"He saved my life," I tell Bebe with a smile of my own, "that bastard Craig was about to beat me into the pavement, and Butters here showed up and told him off. Held him off long enough for the cops to show." Bebe stops laughing, stares at Butters with new eyes.

"No shit?" she asks him, and he nods solemnly, still looking uncertain. She watches his face for a sign of a prank.

"Huh," she puts a hand on her hip, looking a bit stunned, "well, crap. I'm like, impressed." She extends her hand to shake at last, and Butters takes it as if it might bite him or something.

"You're gonna regret saving this son of a bitch," she glances affectionately back down at my sorry ass, "Kenny's like a bad case of herpes. Just can't get rid of the guy once you catch him."

"Oh, I—"

"Bebe, we have a meeting in ten minutes!" the door bursts open and Wendy blows in in the breathless hurry she always seems to be in. She must have seriously high blood pressure, because I don't think I've ever seen Wendy when she is NOT headed somewhere in a rush.

"Chill babe," Bebe grabs Wendy's ass and pulls her in close, "we'll make it in time," she smiles mischievously, "and then some."

Wendy softens, tilts her head, "I don't know how you survive. Do you even own a watch? It's like these things don't even occur to you."

"I don't need a watch. I have you," Bebe nuzzles her nose.

"Romantic," Wendy rolls her eyes, but she's smiling.

Butters just watches them, looking entranced.

I make a disgusted face behind their backs. Uck, saps.

It's typical really. Bebe and Wendy always attract a lot of attention, being the way they are. It doesn't really bother them anymore, but it's always amusing to see the shock and awe they cause in strangers.

"Oh," Bebe removes her hands from her girlfriend and turns to me again in my hospital bed, "Kenny got his ass kicked again. This guy," she points one chipped red polish finger at Butters, "saved him this time."

Wendy gives me a sympathetic smile as she straightens her suit jacket. Then she gives Butters a cursory once over. Gotta tell you something about Wendy, though. Bebe's sort of intimidating, but Wendy's downright scary. Something about those eyes—they are blue as ice, and twice as cold.

My friends are pretty much walking cases of head trauma. Butters may just have a sudden coronary yet.

"Nice to meet you," she tells Butters, lips smiling. Imagine a tiger smiling. That's what Wendy looks like when she smiles. Butters lets out a noise that sounds suspiciously like a squeal of terror, which only makes her grin wider. Wendy is used to this response, I guess.

Bebe, now leaning lazily against the door frame, growls appreciatively.

"I love it when you terrorize strangers, babe," she says, "so hot." You gotta admit; they are sort of perfect for each other.

Wendy rolls her eyes, but I can see her blushing. She coughs and turns her attention to me, "Kenny, what the hell did you do this time?"

"I didn't do anything this time!" I protest, "Tweak's just out of my blood!"

"Bullshit. What did you do to piss him off?" Wendy jabs my ribs hard, and I wince in pain. Bitch.

"Hey now, take…take it easy there," Butters says, "he's got a…a couple a' broken ribs."

"Good!" Wendy throws her hands up in the air and goes into rant mode, "maybe it'll knock some sense into that thick head of his! How many times have I TOLD you not to mess with Tweak and his crew? That you'll only end up dead? That you're being stupid, and you need to take responsibility in your life and take some goddamn care of yourself before I kill your moronic ass myself! God!"

"You're so sexy when you are pissed off," Bebe slaps her butt appreciatively. Bebe's not really often keen on "the big picture."

"Hey, hey now," I say to Wendy, "I didn't do shit! Like I said, Tweak's just being a dick. I was just walking along, and Craig started beating the crap out of me. And now you're yelling at me like it's my fault they are obviously dangerous psychopaths who deal drugs and also happen to hate me." I pout. Wendy sighs, crossing her arms over her chest. We've had this talk a few times before, and it always comes to the same old standstill.

"Well, how did you get away this time?" she eyes my bandages and monitors with concern in the slant of her dark eyebrows.

I gesture to Butters, who shrugs again.

"I didn't really do nothin'," he mutters quietly.

"Well, both Kenny and my girlfriend both seem to think you've saved him," Wendy says briskly, "so maybe you can convince him to stop hanging out with thugs. It's obviously quite bad for his health." She sniffs, and pats my arm, "feel better, you idiot." Then she takes the crook of Bebe's elbow and tries to pull her towards the door.

"Can we go now?" she asks in a voice which has returned to full tension, "we're really going to be late if we hang around here any longer." Bebe sighs exaggeratedly.

"All right, Wends," she agrees, "we can go to the super lame, boring meeting now. Ciao boys. Was nice to meet you Butter-balls." And they are gone, the sound of Wendy's harrying echoing all down the halls.

Butters watches the door long after they are gone. I think he's in shock.

"Somethin' else, aren't they?" I ask with a knowing grin.

"They sure look happy," Butters says in a soft voice.

"I guess," I shrug. I'm a little surprised because out of all the observations Butters could have made about my friends, he makes the one most people miss at first.

I look at my bed stand and notice Bebe stole the plate of cookies Butter had placed there for me last night.

"Bitch," I mutter under my breath, "I hope Wendy makes her stay awake through that whole meeting."

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	3. Chapter 3

**South Park—no own. **

I'm back on my feet in about a month. Which means, _oh joy_, I gotta go back to work.

I work for this guy named Kyle. Kyle's great, real quiet and particular. He owns a florist shop, and he's labeled every bud and seed with little white tags that say the Latin names of the flowers on 'em. My job's to do the lifting. I move bags of manure and soil, big pots, shovel out trees, et cetera. Kyle's the type to want to do the careful stuff himself. Heaven forbid I over-mist the azaleas.

The pay's good, anyway, and Kyle doesn't talk much. That's a wonderful thing, especially after weeks of Butters sitting by my bed, trying to read me poetry. Seriously, we got through half that book. Don't tell no one, but the honest truth is, it ain't as bad as it sounds. I mean, some of the words are soft and pretty and as I'd drift off to sleep, it was sometimes real nice to hear those things, comforting in a way. Still dude, there's only so much a guy can take. After a couple days of sonnets and haikus, my testicles threatened to leave me for someone without a vagina, and I knew it was the end of the line. So I poured pudding in Butters' book, and got to keep the title Mr. in front of Kenny McCormick.

Anyway.

Kyle's different. And he'd sure as shit never read poetry to me. If he reads poetry at all, he don't tell nobody about it. He's as silent as his plants.

I get back to the little shop and tell Kyle "hey." He nods as I slip on my apron and that's that. No questions asked, I just get back to work. That's how it goes around here, and it's the reason that this is the best job I ever had. Kyle don't poke his nose in nobody's business.

I'm not quite one-hundred-percent, so I start easy. I put on my old leather gloves and head out to the outdoor greenery to repot some rose trees. I switch 'em out when they out grow their pots into bigger pots. Pretty easy, I just fill a new pot halfway, yank a bush out, shake the roots a little to free' em up, then stick it good in the new pot and cover it up with more soil. Then I add some fertilizer, water it, and it's done. I'm telling you, plants LIKE to grow for Kyle. Anything he touches grows green and healthy. Even after my grubby paws have been all over it.

I replant the roses, and then I go stack bags of soil, which are a mess, 'cause clearly, Kyle can barely carry his own weight—let alone thirty-pound bags of soil. I re-stake some tomato plants, move some saplings into the shade, and patch a hole in the back fence. I'm sweating and dirty by the end of it, but I feel refreshed. I like this kinda work; I can finally hear myself think. I think somebody once said there's honor in a hard day's work. And as I swipe my fist across my forehead and lean contentedly against the newly repaired fence, I can kinda see his point. I feel good, proud in a way, and maybe that's honor. The warmth in your stomach, and how it's almost like you earned that tired feelin' in your bones. I dunno, but in moments like these, I feel less worthless, like I stand for somethin', even if it's just the sweat on my brow from moving heavy things around. Maybe it just feels good to know I'm doing somethin' that matters to somebody for once. Matters worth minimum wage, anyhow.

Back to Kyle, 'cause you're probably sick of hearin' me shoot the shit with ya by now. Kyle's a real particular person, like I said. For example, every day since I known him, I seen him go through the same schedule. Everyday, he spends the morning in the garden, tending his plants. Then he takes a long, slow stroll through the tree farm, winding through the isles of baby trees slow and careful, like he's walking through an art gallery and he doesn't wanna rush or nothin'. I'm not totally sure what he does up there all day. He must have a lot to think about.

But all afternoon, he sits and stares out of the front window of the shop, looking all dreamy and distant. I wonder, but I don't ask.

Today, I find him there, staring out straight ahead as usual. I approach him to ask whether he knows where I should put the cans of paint (by the power tools or out in the shed?), but he doesn't answer me right away. He looks like he's two million miles off, and he just plain old doesn't hear me. I try talking louder to get his attention, but he's not even looking at me. Like he's watching something too captivating to take his eyes off.

So I look out to see what he's staring at. And when I do it makes sense, immediately, why Kyle's staring.

Across the street, at the mail delivery place, is a boy. He's on the small side, with black hair and a blue jacket, can't be more than nineteen years old—and I know right away, that's what Kyle's looking at. He's watching the boy like a dying man eyes the sun. The boy in the store, completely oblivious, smiles at the old man behind the register, taking a stack of packages from the desk, and Kyle watches him, eyes fixed on his every movement. The boy chuckles over something the man behind the register says, and Kyle's breathing hitches ever so slightly. Kyle's eyes cloud with fierce longing as his gaze fixates on the boy's laughing mouth, the trembling line of his heaving shoulders. Ah, man. Kyle looks so….hungry. I dunno what your story is, but if you've ever been truly hungry, ever felt like you'd do absolutely anything if you could just have something to eat, maybe you can imagine the look on Kyle's face. 'Cept move the ache in your gut up a bit higher. Up to your heart.

That's the look.

As the boy slides through the shop door and onto the cold streets, Kyle's trance is broken. He finally notices me. He stares at me blankly for a moment, before quickly flitting his gaze back over to the boy. Then his eyes get real big and alarmed, like a kid with his hand in the cookie jar, and flushes a brilliant red.

"Kenny! I—, uhm, Kenny…how long have you…" he looks so agitated, darting agonized glances between the boy on the other side of the street, now loading the brown parcels onto a truckbed, and me. He wrings his hands and looks so much like an animal in a cage; he's terrified. I am filled with pity, and make my expression soft to comfort him.

"Kyle," I say gently, but he begins shaking his head fiercely, red curls shivering around him as he jerks his head from side to side.

"No, no, you don't understand! I wasn't—"

"Kyle!" I hold up my hands and raise my voice, meeting his gaze as steady as possible, "it's chill, man. Listen, I don't care. It's no big deal, okay?" He won't look at me, so I make my voice firmer, meet his eye directly and repeat, "Okay?"

Kyle's tense shoulders lower just a bit and he nods, still looking like he's heard some very, very bad news. I swear, Kyle's the biggest case of needs-a-chill-pill I've ever seen. Like, ever.

"I…" he hangs his head and closes his eyes, "I…I…" he pauses, trailing off and chewing his lip, "yeah." His voice is frustrated, cornered, and he sighs like it pains him to do so. I just nod encouragingly, not wanting to scare him off. There's a long pause, and then Kyle takes a deep breath and stares down at his hands.

"I've never even talked to him," he says at last in a small voice, still not looking up, "he doesn't see me."

"You should talk to him, then," I say. Problem solved, right? They say love ain't rocket science—but pfff. Bring on the rocket science. I'm a goddamn genius.

"I can't!" Kyle's outcry is full of despair.

"Why?"

He meets my skeptical expression and then drops his gaze back to the floor. "You wouldn't understand."

I narrow my eyes and cross my arms. "So what's the problem?" I ask, looking once again out the window for the subject of our conversation. The boy has gone however, and though I squint to see if I can find him, I can't. He must be in the back or something. I tap my foot against the scruffy wood floor with impatience as Kyle twists the hem of his scarf around his fingers. We are silent for a few moments, an _impasse, _Wendy would call it, and then, Kyle sighs again. When he starts talking, the words are reluctant, like Kyle's gotta drag 'em out of himself.

"I just…can't," he says, pulling his knees up as he sits down in the dusty old chair behind the cash register. He holds my gaze after another slow pause, and that faraway look steals back into his eyes.

"It's like this," he says, so low I can barely hear, "I-I…don't know how to talk to people much, and I don't…" he peeks at me helplessly, then sighs again and continues, "look…have you ever had something you wanted? Like….really wanted? Kyle regards the empty street outside, "I….well. It's just…if I talk to him, I'll know for sure that…that I can never have him." He looks as his hands, and then balls them into fists, knuckles turning white.

"And then it'll be over. And I won't have this feeling anymore," Kyle's voice is almost too quiet, "and…and this feeling? That's the best it ever gets for me."

It's the most I have ever heard him say. I look once again, to see the boy outside the window. He's puffing into his hands now, white breath fogging out from between his gloved fingers. I frown, waiting for Kyle to continue, but he doesn't.

A beat passes. Kyle is still looking away, anywhere but at me. After awhile, he excuses himself, muttering, "I have to…" and hurrying off at a flustered pace. I watch his retreating form for a bit before deciding, my conversation partner gone, that it's time to get back to work again. Can't stand here all day, and anyway, my brain hurts.

I figure it's probably just a Kyle thing and resolve to give up thinking about it.

But as I'm weeding the vegetables, I realize maybe I understand a little bit of what he was saying.

And what I'm thinking is _holy fuck_. I mean holy fuck. I wish I didn't understand, because now that I'm getting it, I realize it's sad. Maybe the saddest thing I ever heard. Ever. My whole miserable life I never heard anything so fucking sad. It's the saddest fucking thing I've ever fucking heard because it's the same damn story I've been telling myself for years without ever saying it outloud. I realize that we all do it. Leave our dreams up on pedestals 'cause we're afraid of losing the idea, like the idea's all we could ever have. The notion of what could be, even though it ain't even real—we leave things like they are 'cause we're too damn scared they aren't real. We just want it, long for it from afar and live under the assumption that it's out of our grasps. That the dream's all we got, so we protect it from reality, 'cause even though we don't believe, we want to _that fucking badly_.

And I never woulda known it, til Kyle went and said it like that.

God, and it sucks. Life sucks. Why do we want what we can't fucking have?

Across the street, three children begin playing jumprope, skipping over the ropes and trying not to get their feet all tangled up. Just skimming over the moving ropes, and laughing cause they are enjoying the game—even when despite their best efforts, they get tangled up anyhow.

Kyle goes back to fussing with the cash register, eyes down and body still nervous, like he'd fly to pieces in a moment if something touched him. God knows, maybe he would. Maybe he would fall apart if something reached up and tapped his shoulder, and he'd flutter back down to earth like slow falling snow.

"You should talk to him," I say again, quietly. Kyle pretends not to hear me, but I see his shoulders bunch together like he's flinching, so I know he did.

And as I turn away, return to my work, I think about all this stuff, and it bounces around my brain insistently till I can barely keep track of it all. It's depressing in the way watching old war movies is depressing, and you can see people dying but it isn't even real. It's an old nightmare and we can't remember it, but it's supposed to scare us anyway.

I get back to work, and as I'm moving the potted yellow daisies outside to the greenhouse so they can catch a few rays, for some reason I think of Bebe and Wendy. The way when they smile at each other…then I wonder if the world just sort of switched off, because to them, they're alone. And they're happy no matter who's staring and pointing.

I check the greenhouse thermometer, the little red bulb dripping off the glass, and I think of Butters. The look on his face when he was certain that thug was going to kill him, and even though he was trembling he didn't really look afraid at all.

I hear scuffling inside, and I know Kyle's about ready to close shop. I take off my clothes, brush the dirt off my pants, and wipe the sweat off my brow. I wonder absently if Kyle's dreams have always been like weights around his neck. Hold his head down as he is too afraid to peer directly into the sun

And I wonder about the boy across the street, if he's lonely every night, and if he wonders why there's no one in the world who loves him enough to ask him if he is.

Ah, fuck, I shouldn't talk like this, but I'm still on painkillers, and morphine makes me into such a fucking sap.

When I dream that night, I dream of the garden wet and lush and hazy like the middle of summer, and of Kyle. He is weeding the garden, tossing the imperfections out of the soil as he crawls around on his knees amongst the roots. I notice that he doesn't look up. Not once.

**Thoughts? Comment? Tomatoes? If I make my pleases extra pretty, will you leave me some reviews? **


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